


An Orange Glow In Light Rain

by TheDiscountenancer



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDiscountenancer/pseuds/TheDiscountenancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving is one of the many downsides to being the only son of two German diplomats. That, and the loneliness. Having two parents whose employers insist they move countries three times in five years (on average) doesn't really nurture decent friendships, especially at school. </p><p>Jean and his parents get moved to London, and guess who his neighbours are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so I hope it's ok. I adapted it from a creative writing assignment that I wrote in school (which I wrote as an AU and changed some names around). Also, I don't known any German. All translations are done through BabelFish

It is raining at the airport. A dull, never ending sort of rain that seemed like it would worm your way into your life without you ever realizing it was there. I decide that I hate it. I had just gotten used to the heat of Morocco, with its houses carved in stone and surrounded by sandy deserts, and I would do anything to get back to it's heat at the moment. But I can't, because we moved. Again.

Moving all the time is one of the many downsides to being the only son of two German diplomats. That, and the loneliness. Having two parents whose employers insist they move countries three times in five years (on average) doesn't really nurture the idea - or the practicality - of decent friendships, especially at school. Mutti and Papa don't seem to mind leaving their friends behind, but I did. I used to be really good at making friends, but that easy going nature is gone now. After losing three sets of friends over five years, I decided to stop trying to make friends. It saved everyone a lot of pain in the long run.

It was easier then I expected. People don't usually like the new kid anyway. 

* * *

 

There is a man in a suit waiting for us near the airport doors with a sign that says ‘KIRSTEIN FAMILY’. I assume that he was from the embassy - they usually send a car over to collect us. Mutti waves to him and hurries over with Papa and our bags, weaving her way through the throng of people with a bit of difficulty. I trail along more slowly, looking around at the crowded airport. A mill of people filled with hugs and tears and luggage getting in the way.

The rain has steadily increased, thundering on umbrellas and splashing on shoes. Outside, people don't seem to mind it much, just hunching their shoulders and opening umbrellas like they deal with this every day.

The man from the embassy takes our bags, and walks swiftly through the rain to the car, looking back at us to check if we're following. I grimace, then run across to the black embassy car before I can delay it any longer. I scowl. It seems like a number of puddles made it their first priority to come live in my socks. This is not turning out well.

We drive through central London, past the Eye and Westminster Abbey. Mutti and Papa stare out the windows and talk to the driver, exclaiming at Big Ben and asking animatedly about all the things we see on our way through the city. I don't speak, tired and grumpy from the long flight. Outside, the city seems colourless, even in the middle of the day. I put it down to the rain and the cloud cover, though Mutti and Papa don't seem to notice it, and if they do, they don't mind. They’re still chattering on about the city, in a strange mixture of English and German words.

"Isabel, look at the _fluss_!"  
" _Schauen Sie!_ Big Ben!"

* * *

 

The man from the embassy stops at number 15, Rose Street. Mutti kisses his cheek and the man hands her a key, blushing slightly. I stretch my hands above my head, my jumper riding up slightly to expose my shirt underneath. A 14 hour plane trip followed by an hour in the car has made my back stiff, and I wince slightly as my muscles protest.

"Go open up the door for us, Jean" she says, giving me the key and opening my door. I sigh, lowering my arms and hunching down into my jumper when I encounter more rain outside. Mutti pushes impatiently me towards an old oaken door when I protest, and I step in a puddle. Number 15. This must be the one. Our new house, for however long the embassy deigns to keep us.

I insert the key into the lock and turn it, and I hear the lock mechanism clunk. Inside the house it’s dark, but a sliver of pale light from outside illuminate the boxes full of clothes and books that line the hallway. I frown, then realise that the embassy must have collected our things when they arrived after being shipped. It looks like a nice place, and I frown. I don't want it to be a nice house; it’s easier to hate them when they’re ugly.

I start winding my way past the boxes and into the furnished living room (it saves costs if the embassy just buys a house and furniture, and let their diplomats use them, rather then paying for shipping and removal every time someone gets a new posting). It’s nice furniture this time, much better then Morocco, and my scowl deepens.

There are stairs on the far side of the room, and I climb them, trying to find my bedroom and the bathroom. My bedroom is the smallest, with a single bed and a desk and chair being the only furnishings. There’s a built in wardrobe, but no bookshelf. I sigh. That will have to be remedied.  
The bed squeaks when I sit down on the mattress. I groan. This will mean that I will have to bare squeaky nights for a long time. I make a mental note to ask Mutti where the sheets are, but for now a bare mattress will do the trick.

* * *

 

 _I’m flying through the air, propelled by long wires and hooks that snake out of my harness and sink into buildings and walls. I’m holding two long blades in my hands, and I’m running from something, something terrible.  
_ _I hear a scream, but I don't turn my head. I know what happened, but I don't want to see it. I don't want to know who had died this time.  
_ _I hit a roof running, my wires retracting into my harness belt. I leap from roof to roof, still running from that terrible thing. Someone hits the roof beside me. I turn my head, and_ _—_

* * *

“Jean! _Mach die Tür auf!”_

I start awake, my heart pounding and sweat pouring off me. I concentrate on breathing slowly, deeply, trying to calm my heart down. I bury my face in my hands, shaking. I hate those nightmares. I haven’t had them in a while, but a move always sets them off.

“ _Mach die Tür auf,_ Jean! Please!”

I groan loudly, then stomp barefoot down the wooden stairs and through the living room to the door. I open it, scowling and still shaking slightly, and come face to face with a woman who is holding a large pot of something that smells nice and a boy with dark, short hair and an obscene amount of freckles all over his face. I stare at him, and he stares back, blinking.

“Hi” I say, slightly wary. She grins, practically bouncing on the spot.  
“Hey! I’m Eliza, and this is Marco.” She gestures to the boy who appears to be around my age. He’s hiding behind his mother slightly, smiling shyly.  
“We live next door, at number 13, and we noticed that you just moved in. I have a whole heap of soup left over from last night, and I was wondering if you would like it, since you probably didn't have anything in.” Eliza says all of this in a rush, barely stopping for breath.  
I grin, my smile genuine for the first time in months. It was true, we had no food and I was starving. “Come in.”

Eliza and Marco enter the house, just as Papa comes down the stairs with his arms full of cardboard boxes. He raises an eyebrow at me.

“ _Wer ist das?”_  
“Neighbors. Eliza and Marco, they live at next door. They brought us soup.”

Papa laughs quietly, and walks into the kitchen. I gesture to Eliza and Marco that they should follow him, and they do. He puts the box down on the counter then extends his hand.

“Adam Kirschtein, and my wife Isabel.” He gestures to Mutti, who had just walked in. “And you’ve met my son Jean.”  
“Yes, he let us in. I’m Eliza Bodt, and this is Marco. As Jean mentioned, we live at number 13, and we have some soup that I thought you might like.”

Eliza sets the soup down on the table, and I open the container greedily. It looks delicious, even though it was cold and the broth was all jelly-like from the stock that she’d used.

I turn to Mutti. “Can we heat it up now? I’m starving.”

* * *

“How old is Jean?”  
“16. He’ll be at Trost High”  
“That’s where Marco is as well. You two might have some classes together, seeing as you’re the same age.” Eliza says, glancing over at Marco and I, smiling.

I look at Marco, raising my eyebrows slightly, and he smiles. His smile lights up the whole of his face, but I don't smile back. Marco’s grin drops then, and he goes back to eating his soup and talking with our parents. I eat another spoonful of soup, but it doesn't taste as good as before. It’s still delicious, but less so now, for some reason. I frown slightly, but continue eating. Eliza seems to take that as a compliment, and she grins at me.

* * *

 Eventually, Eliza and Marco make their excuses and leave, Eliza still bouncing even after a glass of wine and some soup. I start to smile at Marco, but then stop myself. Making friends is dangerous; it causes everyone a lot of pain in the end. But Marco seems different to any of the other friends that I used to have. I stare down at my feet, confused and angry that I can’t keep to the code I’ve been obeying for four years. Marco frowns slightly, and then turns and walks out the door, pulling the hood of his jumper up and hunching his shoulders. He seems sad, and for a second I want to run out the door and apologise to him. But then he enters his house next door, and I turn away.

Outside, the streetlamps make an orange glow in the light rain.


	2. Cloud Cover

Trost High is enormous, and I mean enormous. When compared to the 60-students-and-two-teachers school that I attended in Morocco, this place seems like a small country. Teenagers in ugly brown uniforms run around everywhere, shrieking like banshees in an opera. There is _so much noise_ , its almost deafening, and when the bell rings I have to resist the urge to cover my ears. I haven’t been around this much noise in a long time, and it’s taking its toll. So naturally, I almost scream when I feel someone touch my shoulder.

“ _Scheiße_ Marco! Don’t do that!”  
Marco laughs a bit, then gestures towards the doors of the main building, rocking on his heels slightly. “Sorry. Anyway, I was wondering if you needed someone to show you around, seeing as you don’t know your way around or anything, and you need to sign in and get your timetable and then you need to find your classes and—”  
“Marco, Marco, slow down. You’re rambling.”  
Marco blushes slightly, and looks down at his feet. “So, do you want a hand, or…?”  
I’m about to say _no, I’m fine,_ but to my surprise.  
“Yes.”

Marco looks up, and grins at me, his eyes twinkling. It suddenly occurs to me that though I hardly know this kid, I am in real danger of becoming his friend. And I definitely don't want that to happen. I would do anything to keep his freckled face from looking sad. But, against my better judgment, I follow him into the building, scowling because I let my guard down. 

* * *

 

Class. Now this is something that I’ve missed. My school in Morocco was so easy that I ended taking online and correspondence courses, just to keep me occupied. But this is so different, with 30-odd kids in a class; there are so many different opinions, and it’s so noisy. It’s often overwhelming, especially in the corridors, where you have to push through groups of kids blocking the way and chewing gum with sneering expressions. That, I haven’t missed.

I try to follow Marco through the crowded hallways, where he’s taking me to our engineering class. I’m surprised at how many classes we have together (Maths, Engineering, Science and English. Marco has Drawing when I have Psychology. It seems Eliza was right), but honestly, I’m glad to have someone I know with me. Even though I’m **not** his friend. No. Not his friend, definitely not.

I blink, pulling myself out of my thoughts and turn into Engineering, and taking the seat next to Marco, who smiles at me. I scowl unconsciously, and his smile fades slightly. I wince internally. I didn't mean for that to happen, even though I’m not his friend. He’s just someone I know, right?

I jump as a guy with a buzz cut and a girl with long reddish-brown hair drop their bags by the desks behind us, and they immediately start talking loudly, punctuated my wild gestures on the part of Buzz Cut and Hair. Marco grins, and interrupts them after a while. They don't seem to mind, so this must happen a lot. He turns to me, and I raise my eyebrows.

“Sasha, Connie, this is Jean. He’s new, and from everywhere.” Marco says, pointing to Buzz Cut (Connie) and Hair (Sasha) as he introduces us.  
Connie raises his eyebrows. “Everywhere?” he asks skeptically.  
“Born in Germany, but I’ve lived in Serbia, Georgia, Australia, Vietnam, America and Morocco, to name a few. My parents are diplomats, which is why I move around so much.” I say, but without much emotion. I’ve repeated this spiel so much; it seems almost second nature now.

Up the front of the classroom, someone clears his throat. “Ok, you can shut up now! As most of you know, I’m Mr. Levi. Call me Levi if you want to, and if you don’t, suck it up. And if you don't know that, I don't know where you’ve been for the past couple of years, so you’d better start paying attention.” At this, Levi fixes a venomous glare in the direction of Sasha and Connie, who stifle their giggles underneath their hands.

This is going to be an interesting lesson…

* * *

 

The next couple of days pass by in a blur of new faces, teachers and crowds, as well as assessment (seriously? On the new kid’s first day? Who does that?). I find Marco at the front of the school, talking to a Japanese girl with a red scarf, a boy with shoulder length blond hair (usually looks weird on a guy, but it suits him) and a guy with dark hair and a scowl. I immediately put my guard up. I don't know what it is, but something about the scowling guy sets my teeth on edge.

Luckily, Marco turns and sees me before I have to approach them, and comes towards me, waving goodbye to his friends. This guy seems to be friends with everybody, it’s crazy. Every three minutes someone is coming up to him to say hi or to ask his advice. I would find it annoying, but Marco doesn't seem to mind. I swear, the kid seems to have the patience of a saint waiting for the second coming of Christ.

I'm glad for the cloud cover. Much less sun than Morocco, and hence much less sunburn. Now that is something I don't miss.

As we start to walk back towards our block, Marco seems slightly less bubbly then he was at school, looking down at his feet and kicking stones along the pavement. I stay quiet, tired from walking up and down stairs with a heavy bag all day, not to mention the nightmares that I’ve been having recently. I assume Marco is going to stay quiet, as we don't tend to talk much when we walk to and from school, but suddenly he speaks.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, voice quiet.  
I turn towards him, stopping in the middle of the pavement, shocked. I didn't expect this. “Marco, no. You didn't do anything wrong, nothing.”  
“You start to smile sometimes, then you’ll glance over at me and suddenly you’ll stop smiling and go into one of your moods. I must have done something, because I haven’t seen anyone act like that unless I’ve done something.”  
I sigh, and start walking home, leaving Marco on the pavement. I don't want to have to explain this to him, because then I’ll have to see his face drop, and I hate that.

Suddenly I feel a hand grab my arm, and I get yanked around hard to face Marco. His face is blotchy, and his eyes are red.  
“Tell me” he says, his voice dangerously quiet.  
I take a deep breath. “Nothing. It’s not you.”  
“Then what is it?”  
“When I was 10, I had lived in six different countries, and I remember my friends from about five of them. I remember that I always found it easy to make friends, I’d just tell my classmates about my adventures in other countries. But after slightly more then a year, we would get moved to another country. I would leave my friends behind, and they would cry. I stopped crying in front of them after two sets of friends, and I stopped crying completely after four. But my friends always cried when I left. And we always left. When I was about 11, I decided that it would be less painful of all fronts if I just stopped making friends. They wouldn't get hurt and neither would I. And it worked. I haven't had a friend in years. But then you came along, and your mother gave us soup and I realised that, maybe I was lonely. Maybe I should try having a friend, just one. But when I look at you I remember all the crying seven-year-olds I left behind, and I couldn't bear to see you with that expression on your face."

I run, keeping my head down so I don't have to see Marco's face. I hear him call my name a couple of times, but I don't stop running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Taylor, Emily and Morgan for support and betaing. And thanks for the kudos and hits, I nearly squealed when I saw that it had gotten kudos


	3. Thunderstorms

It's dark.

I can't sleep.

This isn't surprising, seeing what I said to Marco earlier.   
Oh god, what if I ruined everything?  
My phone pings. Again. It's been doing that for ages, but I can't be bothered looking at it. I know who it'll be.  
I turn over in my bed.

I try to sleep.

* * *

I can hear someone talking. I bury myself deeper in the covers, and the sound is muffled slightly.  
I frown. I musty be imagining it.  
But if I'm imagining it, it wouldn't be muffled my my covers, would it?  
The voice is quite soothing, but it sounds a bit desperate, even through the covers. 

I fall asleep.

* * *

My alarm shrieks.

I groan, and grab my phone so I can turn it off. Thank god it's a Saturday.

_31 new messages._

**Marco: I'm sorry I asked you about that.**

**Marco: Are you ok?**

**Marco: Please answer me.**

**Marco: Jean. ANSWER ME.**

**Marco: Jean.**

**Marco: Jean.**

**Marco. I am seriously considering just yelling through the walls.**

**Marco: For heavens sakes, Jean. You do realise that I live next door to you right?**

**Marco: I can actually come over if I want/feel the need to.**

**Marco: I can practically talk to you through the walls.**

**Marco: If you don't answer in five minutes I'm coming over.**

**Marco: Ok, I warned you.**

**Marco: For heavens sakes, OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR.**

**Marco: Look, I'm sorry, ok?**

**Marco: Did you actually go home?**

**Marco: Ok, you're scaring me now.**

** Mum: Jean, your friend Marco called me. He says you're not answering your phone. Are you ok?  
**

**One missed call: Marco**

** Mum: Jean, answer your phone. **

** One missed call: Mum **

** One missed call: Mum **

**Marco: I called your mum, though I figured you probably worked that out by now.**

**Marco: Please stop this, you're scaring me.**

**Mum: I hope you're ok. Please call me.**

**Marco. I'm pretty sure our rooms have an adjoining wall.**

**Marco: I'm just going to talk at you, ok?**

**Marco: I feel ridiculous.**

**Marco: I have no idea if you can hear me or not.**

**Marco: I'm just going to stop now.**

**Marco: Goodnight Jean.  
  
**

What on earth was I thinking.

* * *

It's storming outside.

Properly storming, with thunder and lightning ripping through the sky, and rain pouring down and soaking through everything in an instant. I haven't encountered rain like this for a long, long time.

I run outside, and sure enough, I get soaked in the first three seconds. I haven't even bothered to put on a coat, but it's warm enough that a jumper and shirt will suffice.

I just stand there, out on the pavement, with my head facing the sky. I hate light, flimsy rain, but this, pouring out of the sky like some strange deity emptied a bucket, this is what I love. I love the sound of the rain hitting rooftops and pavements, the sound of thunder and the flash of lighting, the way it lights up the world for half a second before disappearing, only to reappear somewhere else. I love the barely controlled chaos.  
I stand there for what feels like ages (but is probably only a couple of minutes) before I hear a door open and close softly, then footsteps. Coming towards me.

I take a deep breath, ready to speak, but Marco interrupts me.

"Jean, don't hate me for saying this, but you aren't strong."  
I turn and face him now, brushing my sopping hair out of my eyes. Marco isn't looking at me, instead facing the sky, eyes closed.  
"That means that you can understand how the weak feel. All those people you left behind? You knew what they were going through, because you had to go through it as well, but so many times over. You know how much it hurts, and because of that, you shield yourself from everyone. Not just so you don't hurt them, but so you don't hurt yourself as well."  
"I-I never thought about it that way. It was always about not hurting anybody else, and for years it worked. For years I was the cocky, smart kid who was always full of attitude, driving kids away because of my personality. Occasionally people tried to get to know me, but I made sure that didn't happen. I was lonely, but I liked it that way, or I thought I did. Looking back on it, I wasn't a pleasant kid to be around."

I fall silent, thinking, rain still thundering down around us. Marco shivers a bit, wrapping his arms around his chest, and I make up my mind.

"Come on" I say, walking towards my house. When Marco only raises his eyebrows at me, I grab his wrist and drag him through my door, only letting go when I've gotten him upstairs and pushed him into my bedroom.  
"Jean, what?"  
"Stay there."

Marco complies, with a bemused expression on his face, before turning and studying my bedroom. Only to splutter when I peg a towel at his face.

"Hey! Asshole" he yells, grinning, before he starts trying to dry himself and fails abysmally. 

I laugh at him, until I get a towel in my face.

 

 

 

 


End file.
